Chapter 11: Carriage Ride of Doom
[The Armoire Estate, Next Morning]
Morning light filtered through the silk curtains of the Armoire estate, soft and golden—but Lucien looked like death lightly dusted in rose powder.
He sat at the edge of his bed, robe half-draped, skin ghostly pale with a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead. His once-impeccable hair now looked like a bird had tried to nest in it. He blinked slowly, trying to remember how to breathe through the nausea twisting his stomach into knots.
Marcel burst through the door like a man who’d just heard the estate was on fire. "My lord! You didn’t come down for morning tea! Are you—"
He stopped. His eyes took in Lucien’s pallid complexion, the hollow under his eyes, and the sickly shade of green tinting his cheeks.
"My lord...?" Marcel’s voice pitched an octave higher. "Oh dear heavens. You look like a poisoned ghost!"
Lucien groaned, cradling his forehead. "I’m fine."
"You are not fine!" Marcel wailed, rushing to his side like a windstorm in human form. "You look like a wilted daisy! My lord, your hands are ice-cold! You’re sweating through your nightshirt! Oh no—oh no no no. Is this morning sickness? Pregnancy fever? Has the baby annexed your liver?!"
Lucien coughed weakly. "Pretty sure it’s just nausea."
Marcel was already halfway to the writing desk, inkpot in one hand and quill in the other. "That’s it. I’m writing to Grand Duke Silas. This is an emergency. You are in no condition to meet anyone, much less work. He’ll understand, I’m sure—he’s practically your—"
"No," Lucien rasped.